


Olympic Tryouts (part 15)

by jennamacaroni



Series: Olympic Tryouts [15]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennamacaroni/pseuds/jennamacaroni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years.  now they’re both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don’t get along, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olympic Tryouts (part 15)

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys, thanks heaps for reading and all the support (follows/kudos/reviews), you’re all shining gold medals. i have so many warm and fuzzy feels it’s insane.

They just about get back to their room when Brittany’s phone starts ringing. Her smile doubles when she recognizes the caller and swipes her finger across the screen, but rather than bringing it to her ear, holds it up at arms length and points it at herself.

Tears spring to her eyes as she exhales a “hey, Pop,” and Santana can’t help but sneak a glance at the man on the screen. Brittany’s father has a weathered and unshaven face, a deep set of crow’s feet flanking each eye even when he’s not smiling, as if he had spent so much time laughing in his lifetime that the creases never left his face. His eyes are steelier than Brittany’s, as if coated in ash, and are also filled with tears.

“You did it, baby girl?” He sounds like he can’t quite believe the news.

Brittany nods, swiping at her tears with a forearm and humming her assent. “Yeah, Pop. Just found out.”

As they make it to the door, Santana unlocks it and motions that she can make herself scarce to give Brittany some privacy, but Brittany shakes her off, shooing her into their room but leaving the door to the hallway open.

“I’m so proud of you, Brittany. God, I’m so proud.” Santana’s arms prickle in goosebumps as she watches Brittany stare back at her father and pull her lip between her teeth in an attempt to stop her tears. “And I know your mother is too,” he said, his throat thick.

“I know, Pop. I love you,” Brittany manages, offering her dad a watery smile, tears dripping one by one in long trails down delicate cheekbones. “I want you to meet somebody,” she continues, flipping the phone around and pointing it across the room. “This is Santana, my roommate and now official teammate. Santana, this is my dad, Jack.”

Santana waves awkwardly and offers a friendly smile. “Hi Mr. Pierce, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Jack, please, Santana. And congratulations on the good news, it’s quite an accomplishment.”

Santana feels her cheeks burn. “Thank you, sir.”

“I heard you were the one responsible for Britt’s black eye.” His tone is serious and accusatory but he can’t hold a scowl for more than a few seconds before chuckling. “I hope it wasn’t her who did that to your nose,” he adds as Santana raises her fingers to her still misshapen and bruised nose self-consciously.

At that Brittany spins the phone back around and guiltily admits, “I might have had something to do with it, yes.” Santana thinks she looked like a scolded puppy and can’t help but laugh.

“Brittany Susan Pierce.” He tries to sound disappointed, but again fails. Santana picks up on some undertones of pride.

“She deserved it, Dad,” Brittany defends, chuckling and glancing in Santana’s direction and catching her eye. “And we’re both over it, so let’s move on. Aren’t you supposed to be working?” she asks, turning back towards the phone and wiping her eyes.

“I snuck out when I saw your text and just had to call, but you’re right, I should get back. Congratulations again, sweetheart, we are so proud of you.” The ‘we’ must also include Brittany’s sister, but Santana doesn’t recall ever catching her name.

“Thanks Pop,” Brittany answers, blowing her dad a kiss. “Talk soon.”

“Bye Santana!” he shouts before hanging up. Brittany sniffles loudly and swipes at her nose with the sleeve of her tshirt and Santana can’t help but blink at her across the room, smiling.

“So that was my dad,” Brittany laughs, finally dumping her bag on the floor of the room and flopping down onto her bed.

“He’s nice. You look like him.”

“He is. And if you can believe it, I’m actually the spitting image of my mom.” At that Brittany pauses, as she always does when thinking of her mother.

Santana can’t think of anything to say, but has the urge to cross the room and hug her tightly. She settles instead for “Wanna watch some more film? We’ve got some time before lunch.”

“Sure,” Brittany agrees as Santana grabs her laptop and scoots back in the bed to make room, patting the open space alongside her. Brittany reaches to pull free her ponytail, running a lithe hand through her long hair to tease out the tangles before pulling on ratty sweatpants, setting them low on her hips and crossing the room. She falls down alongside Santana and splays one leg over her, all the while burrowing her head into Santana’s shoulder. “Hey,” Brittany whispers.

“Hey.” The goosebumps reappear quickly and radiate across Santana’s whole body down to the tips of her toes.

_____

They spend the next hour watching Finland take on the Czech Republic, both commenting occasionally on a significant play or what Finns they need to look out for, but even then Santana has a hard time concentrating. At one point Brittany reaches a hand to scratch Santana’s scalp and she practically melts into the bedcovers.

“Goalie is weak on the glove side, we’re going to be too fast for her. Quinn, too,” Brittany adds, drumming her fingers on Santana’s forearm. Santana just hums in agreement, leaning her head against Brittany’s and sighing contentedly. She could so get used to this.

_____

“I hope y’all came ready to skate today. On the endline,” barks Coach Taylor as they complete the team stretch and strap on their helmets. Santana makes her way to the end of the ice, taking a place between Quinn and Tina. The idle chatter stops once Coach Taylor takes his place in the goal crease, leaning over the crossbar of the goal and studying them all carefully.

“Be prepared to work harder the next six months than you have ever worked in your life.” It’s not a suggestion, but a warning. “You will push your bodies to their absolute limits and you will have days where you want to give up but you _will_ persevere and you _will_ be stronger for it. We may not be the fastest or strongest team out there in February, but we will be the smartest. Limit our mistakes and attack the puck and ladies, we _will_ win.” Coach Taylor says it with such emphatic yet simple certainty that Santana can’t help but believe him completely. _We will win_. Her peripheral vision catches Brittany roll her shoulders and straighten up and Santana can’t help but smirk. Coach certainly knows how to fire them up already.

“Give me everything you’ve got and more. And if you can’t hack it, we’ll find someone that will, because you can bet those twenty I sent home this morning would give anything to be where you are right now. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Coach!” they all answer, emphatically.

“Good. Now get on that end line, we’re touching reds and blues in under 60 seconds, let’s go. Coach Roz, on your whistle.”

“Let’s get moving!” Coach Roz shouts and then the whistle blows. Twenty pairs of skates dig into the ice in synchronicity, scraping up a flurry of snow as team USA takes off down the ice.

_____

If Santana thought tryouts last week were grueling, it doesn’t come close to how hard Coach Taylor is working them now that the team is set.

“LOPEZ! If you don’t get those cement blocks off those skates of yours, you’re going to be running stairs around the rink all afternoon until you find out just how long you can go before you pass out!” Coach yells from his position at mid-ice, riding Santana for lagging behind on the fast break play they are running. She grumbles a long string of profanities under her breath before turning back to start the play again.

“We’re almost there, common San,” Brittany encourages as she skates by, reaching her stick to smack Santana’s ass quickly. Usually Santana finds comments like that patronizing and annoying, but coming from Brittany, it lights a fire in her she can’t extinguish.

“I can barely move right now,” Santana jokes over her shoulder, skating to a stop and waiting for the whistle. They are finishing up hour three of a marathon session full of suicides and agility drills and everyone is on their last leg. Coach Taylor only let them finally touch a puck twenty minutes ago and Santana has eyed the clock on the scoreboard every two minutes, praying for the final whistle.

When it finally comes, nearly everyone drops to their knees in exhaustion.

_____

Santana can’t help but pause and chuckle as she crosses into the dining hall with her dinner tray. Her teammates are still isolated in geographical cliques on opposite sides of the room, Boston with Boston and Minnesota with Minnesota, the rest of the continental US occupying a few neutral tables in the center. It’s like how back in school the seat you chose on the first day of class usually was where you ended up all semester. As she makes her way over to Quinn, Mercedes and Rachel in the far corner (gingerly, as her legs are _still_ feeling like Jell-O even though practice ended a few hours ago), she winks at Brittany who watches her from across the room.

“Get up,” she commands, looming over the Boston table. She interrupts what sounds like a debate of the most iconic Broadway musicals, Rachel’s doing no doubt, and is met with dopey looks of confusion and a scowl from Quinn.

“Excuse you, princess, we’re eating,” Quinn barbs, shoving another forkful of spaghetti into her open mouth.

“Just do it,” Santana orders. Surprisingly they listen, pushing up from their chairs and following her to the middle of the room. Santana places down her tray on an empty table and starts to pull it adjacent to another. Rachel catches on quickly, moving to pull another over as Mercedes makes to rearrange the chairs.

“What’s this about, anyways?” asks Quinn, a sassy hand on her hip and one eyebrow raised in scrutiny.

“This whole isolated table shit is ridiculous, we should eat together.” Plain and simple.

Brittany is the first one to catch on and pick up her tray to join them at the long row of tables rearranged in the center of the room, her fellow Gophers trailing behind her like ducklings. She is sure to take the seat directly opposite Santana and starts up a footsie game under the table, grinning like Santana is the biggest goon on the planet. Santana can’t stop the heat that creeps up her face as the rest of the team saunters over one after the other.

After they all settle, she speaks. “From now on we eat together, got it? USA all the way, bitches.” She lifts her cup in cheers and the rest of the team follows her lead. All the while, Brittany keeps grinning that Cheshire cat smile.


End file.
